Spatters on a Canvas
by Mam'zelleCombeferre
Summary: A series of small drabble/ficlets.
1. A Nightmare

A/N: This is my first real fic for Sherlock Holmes outside of my poetry. Please tell me if it is any good. And I would really appreciate some constructive criticism. From Holmes POV.

"Holmes save me please! Please Holmes!"

"Please save me Holmes! Please!" He giggled in mock imitation of the girl he had captured at knife point. He pressed it harder against her neck. "How do you like me now?" A small thread of scarlet dripped down her neck, so immodestly exposed.

"You won't get away with this Forester!" But I knew he would. With my hands tied to the chair and my legs fastened in the same manner, the only thing my struggle would achieve is the chair toppling over. No, he wanted me to watch.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. Her words conveyed this helpless tone. I didn't answer, couldn't answer. To do so would only end her life quicker.

"I trust you will appreciate what I've done Sherlock." Every word Forester spoke, was like twisting a dull knife into my stomach, even the flippant handling of my christian name. "She," he slit her throat in one smooth motion, " Was useless. A hindrance to great men such as you or I."

I couldn't answer, all I could do was replay the scene again and again. And watch the girl as her blood pooled on the ground around her, a scarlet puddle staining the once pure white dress. As I did she breathed her last breath.

I woke up.


	2. The Choice

A/N: Chapter two. I wrote this in one sitting when I was feeling rather depressed from the weather. Hope you enjoy. Same review policy from last chapter applies here. I was experimenting with a more dialogue driven style with this too.

The Choice.

The screams, physical pain.

"Holmes go back! Save them! Holmes!"

The little girl. You could hear her screams echoing, reverberating off my brain. A struck chord.

"Holmes!" I whirled around to face Watson's tear stained face.

I couldn't save them. I failed. What did one say to a man who was watching a family lose their everything?

Speechless for the first time

"There is still time! We can-"

A shot.

Sobs.

A shot.

Screams.

A shot.

Silence.

I stood stiff. Silence is relative, and the air was thick with unspoken words.

"I'm sorry." There is no way this is adequate.

"Is that all you can say?"

"I'm sorry." I say louder, yet still hardly above a murmur.

The little girl. She looked like Mary. She was only nine. I murdered her, even if my hand was never on the trigger, my silence murdered her.

Silent tears.

The look on his face was of such sheer revulsion that it was hard to tell these were the same friends who had been seen dining at Simpson's earlier.

"Do not make me choose."

"Choose? What the devil do you mean? What the devil was more important than that child's life?"

"I can't tell you-"

"No! Because you don't have an answer. Can you admit for once that you are as confused as the rest of us?"

"I cannot save them all!"

Tempers rise.

"I wish it could always be that simple. There are times, that to interfere would bring about worse consequences then to let things run their course. Sometimes people must die!"

"A child!"

His glare revealed the stirred up passion beneath his shaking, ash covered exterior.

Failure.

Cowardess.

A Choice.

"My brother!"

Shock.


	3. A Little Peek

A/N: Just realized that I completely forgot to thank Medcat for being my beta on this. She really helped a lot.

A Little Peek

Mycroft POV

It was a summer day among many summer days. Looking back, I see it as a remarkable

glimpse into the character of the man my brother would become, but at the time I percieved it merely as the act of a precocious seven year old who had tendencies bordering on impertinent. But I get ahead of myself.

It was one of those few cherished days when one could actually see the sun, and was not quite suffocating on the London pollution, so we decided to take a walk. Father was with us, another rare occurrence, brightly commenting on the flowers and the laughter, and we, Sherlock and I, trailed behind him nodding like dutiful sons. Hyde park was beautiful this time of year, and a favorite spot for beggars, offering an endless supply of people (all with pockets to pick), and plenty of places to hide if a constable happened to walk through.

On this particular day though, a young girl, stark raving mad wandered through the trees while talking to herself quite loudly, and shooting paranoid glances at the people walking by. Father pulled Sherlock closer, which was my first instinct as well, and said with a stern voice, "Sherlock, do not stare."

"Why not?" There was no trace of whining in his voice, only curiosity.

"Because it is rude." It was just like Sherlock to question Father's authority.

"But she looks lost." There was a hint of sadness in my younger brother's eyes, which was lost on father who merely adhered to conventions. "Why's she like that father? Can we help her?"

"She's ill. Now turn around." Father kept walking, "Why can't you try to be a little more like Mycroft?"

A brief feeling of pride shot through me before Sherlock retorted, "Because I'm Sherlock," He said that as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Perhaps, but you are still a boy of only seven years, and little boys must listen to their fathers." And that ended the matter.

Years may pass, and they have, but this memory is a fond one among many other unpleasant ones. It was not long after this that father's verbal abuse escalated. I was forced to grow up, but Sherlock never ceased being that little boy who took in everything, and then questioned it all. I only wish father could have seen.


	4. Untitled

A/N: I really want to thank Medcat who betaed this for me! She helped make this so much better than this was before!

Like No Other night.

It was a night like no other. Even now, writing this, I can feel her gaze on my shoulder, the hairs on my neck stand straight up, and the air gets tense with excitement. It isn't altogether an unpleasant feeling, quite like reading a mystery novel on a cloudy evening, but when it first happened, we were more terrified than the most hideous demon from the blackest pits of Hell would have made us, and we have fought quite a few.

We had just finished a case, The Devil's Foot, about which you may have read in my published accounts. Our nerves were already quite on edge after our encounter with that dreadful root which had nearly been the death of us both.

We were on our way back home, when it began to grow dark, so rather then make the trip home in the pitch blackness of a Cornish night, we made the choice of staying in a small roadside inn. The small inn we had checked into was grungy and altogether unappealing. Holmes and I were forced to share quarters, and that would not have been bad had there been more than one bed. Thankfully Holmes insisted I take it, and despite my protestations, I was glad to have a comfortable place to rest my head.

It did not take long to fall into the arms of Morpheus.

"_Sweet Polly Plunket_

_Lay in the grass_

_Turned her eyes heavenward_

_sighing..."_

It was a sweet voice, with a peculiar wistful tenderness to it, very much like a young child singing while stroking the hair of a doll or a small pet.

"_I am a lass,_

_Who alas loved a lad,_

_Who alas has a lass,_

_In Canterbury..."_

"Holmes, do you hear that?"

"What?" Holmes growled, no doubt displeased that his sleep had been interrupted. I swear the man could sleep for days in the time between cases. I had hoped the fresh air would have a revitalizing effect on him, but it seemed to have had a more soporific one instead.

"That singing." My ears strained to hear it again, but it was gone.

Holmes was irritated. "I do not hear a thing." He rolled back over. "Good night."

How odd. It would be easy to explain the whole incident away by accepting the idea that the child had merely been put to bed, but for some reason, I could not, and did not believe it was that simple.

_Tap_

What was that?

_Pound_

This time, even Holmes was moved by the noise.

"_Help me! Please!"_

Here the pounding escalated, so much that even Holmes' face portrayed terror as he jumped out of the chair and rapidly strode to the door.

"This is enough." Holmes pounded on the adjacent door, but when I turned the knob, expecting it to be locked, I was surprised to find it was not.

But not nearly as surprised as I was when I found the room empty.

"Holmes," my voice was unsteady, "There's no one here."

"I realize that, Watson!" Holmes began to pace back and forth, "But how could that be?" Suddenly his attention was peaked. "Do you smell that?"

I did. We had been so wrapped up in the noise, we had not noticed the smell. It was a strong smell, like decomposing flesh. "It smells like something died."

"Yes," Holmes became the hound, sniffing out clues, "Yes!" He knelt to the floor and began knocking his fist against the floor boards. He did this for multiple moments before one knock produced a more hollow sound. "This is it Watson!" I would have thought him mad if the smell hadn't gotten stronger when he pulled the floor board away. "Help would be appreciated."

Where Holmes had gotten the gloves, I would never know, but I appreciated them. It didn't take long for my hand to come in contact with something. It was vaguely fleshy. Holmes jumped back in surprise for I had jerked my arm out. "There is something or someone in there." I was certain of it.

Holmes without any hesitation pulled the body out.

"Holmes." my voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. We had been quite loud not two minutes ago, but for some reason I now felt an innate need to be quiet. It was the body of a little girl, maybe six or seven years of age. She had begun to decompose some time ago, but one could still tell she had had long blond hair and ice-blue eyes

"How did she die?" My companion's voice trembled with what I couldn't tell to be anger or sadness.

"Her neck was snapped." My own voice shook with disgust.

"She would have been beautiful." Whoever did this, if they were not already dead, would be brought to justice. Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of person to spare a man who could murder a child.

"We should contact the police."

"Yes, yes." He went down the hall to talk to the owner of the inn about fetching the police, whilst I examined the body more closely. Her neck had indeed broken, bruising mottled her pale, young skin. What was even more curious though, and what was also slowly taking over all my thoughts, was that of the sounds we had heard. There was no explanation for it. No logical one at least.

"My daughter!" A tall, burly man ran into the room with tears streaming down his face. "You found her!" He was the inn's owner.

"You're her father?"

"My lovely Patricia!" The man cradled her limp corpse in his arms, "Dear Lord," the man began to whisper a fervent prayer, "Punish the man who has done this to my lovely Patricia, and take care of my child. She was far too young to die." His head jerked up, causing me to startle. "How did she die?"

"They snapped her neck. I'm sorry." I turned away, wishing I could block out the ripping sobs and wails of the inn keeper. I had seen too many broken men in my lifetime.

The police arrived soon after, disrupting this scene. Questions were asked, and in the rush and blur of the moment, all the earlier noises were forgotten for the time being. It wasn't till much later, when we were well on our way back to Baker Street (for we could not bear to stay at the inn a moment longer), that Holmes mentioned it again.

"You don't think?"

"I don't know what to think Holmes, I really don't."

"There are many things about this world that I don't understand Watson. Life after death is the most confusing."

"You think it was a phantasmagoria then?"

"I think that the little girl wanted to be found."

I didn't know what to say to that, and settled for sitting back in my seat. I even managed to calm myself enough for a nap. The rest of the trip passed uneventfully.

The murderer was never found. The Yard and my companion searched high and low tirelessly for two months, Holmes searched even longer, before declaring the trail cold. The murderer was never found, but I didn't regret having walked into that room. I'm still not certain what happened that night. Either way, whether it was a specter or a figment of my imagination, I'm glad we brought that man some measure of peace.


	5. Initium Sapientiae

Initium Sapientiae*

The thunder and lightning were fighting for control of the sky. Your hand was slippery on the pistol. I stood there watching as the rain soaked through my coat, and my shirt. You were shivering, like it was freezing or as if you were ill. I just stood there. I wasn't afraid. You were afraid. I could see it in your every movement, and then you pulled the trigger. My vision went fuzzy, and then it went dark in patches. You looked shocked, and that was vaguely pleasing. I think I faded happily.

It was a good shot, but it only punctured a lung, so he died slowly. You were sickly green, with a blush on your cheeks. You were embarrassed. I asked if you were alright, and you answered by retching in the alley way. Then you said that you kept trying to rationalize it, but there was no taking back the decision to pull the trigger. I said you'd get used to it. You didn't answer.

That night you went home, and as you lay in your bed you couldn't get the scene out of your head. It kept playing over, and over, and over again, driving you crazy. So you reach for that small clear bottle, and that crusted needle, because you believe that will make you forget. And it does for now, but that won't last forever, and the memory will be waiting.

*the beginning of wisdom


End file.
